


At The RAG

by Cerberusia



Category: Callan (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Public Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 22:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: Callan and Meres go to talk to an old acquaintance of Meres' at the Army and Navy Club. Meres has a very particular method of extracting the information.





	At The RAG

There was no good reason for Callan to be there. He'd said as much to Charlie, and it had done as much good as it ever did.

"For the assignment you are about to be given, it will do you good to be seen around town with Meres. Also," Hunter had added after a small but significant pause, "I want you to keep an eye on Meres. Fitzmaurice would be too conspicuous."

That was one was to describe how the Barbadian - huge, hard, and black as the ace of spades - would look in the Army and Navy club. There was no point in Callan saying that he didn't much fancy being Meres' minder, thanks very much, so he didn't bother.

So he had accompanied Meres to the Army and Navy Club - 'the RAG', as Meres insisted on calling it. The newly-rebuilt clubhouse couldn't make much claim to aesthetic splendour, but away from the chrome and glass, the interior still looked in parts like the handful of other gentlemen's clubs to which Callan had been granted entrance - usually, come to think of it, as Hunter's guest.

He was signed in as Meres' guest - though of course Meres was not under the name 'Meres', and he was not under the name 'Callan'. It wouldn't do for David Callan to be noticed associating with Meres' real name, the name under which he had held his commission and was thus compelled to use here. Callan already knew it, and had ever since briefly assuming the role as Hunter and looking at Meres' file (which contained some hair-raising details about his pre-Section exploits), but it was still strange to hear Meres introduce himself by it.

Meres led him to a table at the back of a lounge, in a shadowy nook probably designed for just this kind of exchange. Scotch for Callan, pink gin for Meres. They didn't have long to wait before their mark arrived.

Meres had described Henry Bunton as a 'tart', and it was evident at a glance that he had changed little in this respect since school. His fair hair waved to his collar, and though his complexion was clear and youthful, there was the suggestion of rouge to aid Nature's art. He was smooth, soft, and in his gestures betrayed just a touch of charming effeminacy. He was, in a word, a pansy. Upon catching sight of Meres, his expression turned to a mixture of anticipation and nerves.

"Hullo, Teddy." Meres greeted him with a handshake and a lazy smile. It wasn't the boyish charm he used on susceptible secretaries and waitresses, but something that Callan recognised as closer to how he smiled when he was put in charge of getting information out of the recalcitrant. Nevertheless, it seemed to further intrigue 'Teddy', whose handshake when Meres introduced them was firm, despite his soft, manicured hands.

Bunton began by addressing Meres by his surname, his real name, and Meres interrupted to say,

"Now, Teddy, haven't we known each other long enough to use Christian names? Or as close as we got to Christian names at school, anyway. If I'm to call you Teddy, you must surely call me..."

Bunton shyly agreed that they had, and that he should indeed call Meres 'Toby' - a soubriquet that Callan had not realised had begun life as a school nickname. Clever, to take a name he already answered to.

Bunton came over as a third-former quite overawed by the attention of a senior - which, according to Meres, was exactly what he had once been. It was hard to imagine this dainty, pretty marshmallow in possession of information more valuable than where he got his hair done.

Nevertheless, Hunter said he did, so interrogation it was. The kind of interrogation that could be carried out, it seemed, at the Army and Navy Club in Pall Mall. Callan, well aware of Meres' usual methods of persuasion and interrogation, was left uneasy and unsure of why he was even here; there was surely no question of Meres going too far in hurting Bunton in this setting. But Meres was at his most charming, so Callan submitted to sipping his Scotch in silence as he watched Meres perform. Bunton ordered a campari and soda, which was an attractive complement to Meres' pink gin.

"Joined the Navy when I wasn't looking, have you?" joked Bunton. His nerves were obvious. Meres had told Callan that Bunton had been his fag at school. Callan could well imagine that such an experience might make him nervous around Meres even more than a decade later.

Meres gracefully side-stepped all questions about what he was 'up to' nowadays since leaving the Guards - "Because you're always up to something!" Bunton didn't know how right he was. Meres simply plied Bunton with more campari and leaned in closer, like a snake sidling up to a victim and preparing to throw its coils around it.

Bunton jumped, and flicked a nervous glance at Callan; but Callan gave no sign of having noticed, and Bunton went back to gazing at Meres in a combination of adoration and fear. Callan couldn't see what had made him jump, but could guess that Meres had likely squeezed his knee under the table. That was coming on pretty strong, but Bunton wasn't complaining; and besides, Callan had heard tales about what Eton boys got up to with their prettiest juniors. A hand on the knee would be the least of it.

It was only when Bunton's speech became noticeably halting that Callan realised that the touch had not stopped at their mark's knee. In fact, he strongly suspected that Meres was working his way up Bunton's thigh, stroking little circles and scratching lightly with his nails. Callan had once seen him pull something similar on a job in Crete. It was having the same effect on Bunton as it had on the posh girl with ambitions of espionage.

Bunton wasn't looking at Callan, which left Callan free to look at him. There was no suggestion of either a hard body or a gun under his clothes, which were cut such that it would be hard to hide either. He had gone very pink in the face, which was only to be expected, given that he was being fondled more or less in public. Again, Callan wondered why he was required to witness this. He hoped Hunter didn't think it would be instructive.

"Now, Teddy." Meres' voice was an insinuating purr. "_I_ hear that you've been associating with that Croatian poet who's so popular nowadays, Željko something-or-other..."

"Marković, yes, yes." Bunton seemed amazed - Callan could guess that Croatian poetry had been no more an interest of Meres' at school than it had been to Callan at his. "Yes, very popular - at least in certain circles, you know."

"Old Shine-A-Light seems to think he's marvellous." Meres' tone did not convey unalloyed approval of their mutual acquaintance's taste.

"Oh, Shine-A-Light _would_ say that." Bunton was similarly contemptuous. "He's fallen in with this crowd who are all into having _opinions_ about poetry, you know the type. Not that Markovic isn't marvellous, of course - he is, he really is - it's just that _he_ isn't able to truly appreciate any poetry more complicated than A. A. Milne, and it makes me cross to hear him pretend."

"Pretensions of intellectualism are the most infernal bore," Meres agreed. "Even worse than the real thing. But tell me more about him, Teddy, I'm just _fascinated_. You know, I never took you for a great lover of literature at school - though weren't you involved with the school mag after I left? Oh, word gets round..."

On the conversation went, Meres squeezing Bunton like a perfumed sponge - literally and figuratively. Half of Callan's attention was fixed on Bunton's answers, but the other, no matter how he tried to redirect it, kept returning to the matter of Meres' hand and Bunton's - well, whatever part of Bunton's anatomy it was currently manipulating. It was clearly having an effect on Bunton, who seemed to have developed a terrible stammer over the past few minutes. All his attention was fixed on Meres.

Callan's was divided between the scene playing out before him and the rest of the room; especially on the waiters, one of whom might at any moment descend on them. It wasn't as if anything could be seen beneath the table, but Bunton's blushing and difficulty speaking would surely cause concern. But, if anything, he would say that the staff were carefully avoiding this shadowy corner. The discretion of well-trained staff, or did they know something he and Meres didn't? Callan picked up his whisky with his left hand.

Meres' interrogation was in full swing. Bunton was almost swooning now. Callan had to assume that the semi-public nature of the groping was doing it for him, because anybody with an ounce of sense would have at least begged to change venue to the Gents' by now. But Bunton didn't have much sense, as shown by his association with a revolutionary Czech poet who it seemed ran quite a lot more than his scribblings across European borders. He _was_, however, very well-informed about Markovic's movements, so much so that Callan suspected him of being rather more intimate with their mark than they'd guessed. That or a schoolboyish pash - Bunton was so pink in the cheeks that Callan couldn't guess his opinion of the poet from seeing whether he looked bashful at the name.

Bunton's entire focus continued to be Meres, whose arm was still moving that Callan could see, whose hand was surely still working beneath the table. Meres must have reached Bunton's genitals by now. He must be fondling Bunton through his trousers, perhaps finding the head of his cock and playing with it through the material.

Callan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It wasn't much use him sitting here imagining what exquisite tortures Meres was inflicting on Bunton under the table, but it was an arresting idea. Callan had never considered himself a voyeur, and frankly he considered getting off on watching a colleague's seduction technique rather base. He'd seen men touching each other up in the Scrubs, and it hadn't done anything for him back then; and Meres, despite that after six years of working together they were on warmer terms than Callan would once have thought possible, was a shit in whom Callan had no sexual interest, as he had none in blokes in general.

Despite this, he was growing warm as he kept an eye out for people approaching their table and listened in on the low-voiced interrogation happening across the table from him. Toby would laugh himself sick if he realised. He'd probably say something like _Why, David, I had no idea..._ in an insinuating voice. He might even go so far as to lay a hand on Callan's thigh, if he were feeling bold, though Callan would hit him for it. If Callan were to be scrupulously honest with himself - and he was never anything less, because deluding yourself in his line of work was a good way to wind up very dead = he would have to admit that the idea had a certain erotic frisson. Callan thought himself perhaps more discerning than the foppish Teddy, but it was leaving their mark sufficiently breathless that Callan was intrigued to try it for himself.

He preferred that Meres do it because Callan had asked him to. No: told him to. He wasn't looking to be at Meres' mercy. Been there, done that, got the bruises to body and ego to prove it. No, it suited him to be the one in control. He would spread his legs and tell Meres to get on with it, prove he really was that good and not just propping up his own ego by seducing pretty, stupid little things barely out of school who didn't know any different or any better. He'd make Meres work for it.

By now, Bunton was squirming in his seat. Callan took a sip of Chivas Regal and watched the two of them over the rim of his glass. You could take a picture and caption it Cat and Mouse. Meres was the sleek black mouser with a white bib and white socks, while there was something of the helpless dormouse about Bunton. Or maybe a rabbit, with the twitchiness. Meres leaned into Bunton, cool and confident, speaking in a confiding, coaxing murmur. It was a polished seduction routine, and it worked like a charm on Bunton, who was pink and sweating a little, and completely in thrall to Meres. The tableaux was disgusting and compelling.

Someone ought to do it to Meres, some time. Or maybe they had, and that was where he'd got the idea. See how Toby liked it, trying to keep his cool. Callan could well imagine, the next time they were sent to some fancy place on a job and Meres was the cultured aristocrat, the Right Sort, and Callan was whatever cover would explain his accent, Meres sitting there so smug and Callan sitting next to him and just slipping a hand into his lap, brazen as Meres was being now, and watching Meres have to bite his lip and shoot hot resentful looks at Callan out of the corner of his eye. Yes, that would do very nicely. Callan had often thought what Meres deserved was a taste of his own medicine.

Bunton had bitten his lip red, and his answers came through little laboured gasps. Callan envisioned Meres' hand beneath the table, working Bunton's cock through his trousers with a steady expert touch, squeezing and playing and rubbing at the sensitive spots, massaging it until Bunton was nearly whimpering, his only thought how good Meres' hand was making him feel. He would have told Meres anything in this state, unable to think coherently to put together a lie.

Callan couldn't tear his eyes away from Bunton's face, which showed so clearly what effect it was having on him. His squirming was so obvious that it was a wonder it hadn't drawn the attention of a waiter - or perhaps it had, and they were simply instructed to pay no attention to what went on in dark corners like these. In a moment, Bunton would surely start to make noise - yes, he opened his mouth and a tiny wet gasp escaped before he sank his teeth into his lip again. Callan wondered whether Meres had done this to him before: back at school, perhaps, under a table in the library. It sounded like the kind of thing Meres might have got up to.

Near-silence prevailed. Meres was murmuring into Bunton's ear, nothing Callan could catch (though he suspected it was mostly lewd). Bunton had lost the power of speech. Callan had nothing to say. He could only watch as Meres's hand brought Bunton closer and closer to orgasm. He fought the desire to shift uncomfortably in his own chair in case he attracted the attention of either. An erection was hardly an unusual response to watching somebody obviously carried away by sexual pleasure, but it was a damned inconvenient one right now. It made his thoughts want to turn to his earlier fantasies of Meres doing the same to Callan, or Callan trying it on Meres.

Which made the problem worse, and confused Callan's sense of his own interests and attractions besides. He'd never had the slightest desire to touch another man's cock, nor even to see it. His mind slid away from thoughts of _sex_ with another man: he envisioned a vague sense-memory of what a penis would feel like in his hand, and how Meres' face might look if he touched it like Meres was touching Bunton right now.

Bunton shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, and his whole body seemed to jerk - again - again - a couple of throttled-down moans escaped him - and Callan felt his own cock throb as he watched Bunton's face and knew that beneath the table he was coming at the experienced, clever stroking of Meres' hand.

Meres said something in Bunton's ear as he panted and blinked and licked his lips. Whatever it was, Bunton nodded fervently, and at last Meres permitted him to scuttle off to the Gents' with a muttered apology, unable to meet Callan's eyes.

Meres, of course, had no such delicate scruples. He smirked at Callan salaciously.

"Never had to play gooseberry to _that_ before," said Callan. "He know enough about our Czech poet, then?" He still had an erection.

"Oh yes, and I'd say he'd told me all he knows. Teddy's not a particularly good liar - develops a terrible stammer - and I made it so he couldn't concentrate enough to formulate any cover. Heavens, I haven't done _that_ trick in quite some time. Glad I haven't lost the knack."

"Fondle a lot of young men under tables in public, do you?"

"More than you could possibly care to know," Meres simpered, then grinned a conspiratorial grin - though not without his usual touch of smugness. Callan tried not to look at Meres' long fingers on his glass: he wanted to be able to get up from this table without embarrassing himself. "I suppose we'll wait until Teddy gets back from doing a poor job putting himself to rights in the Gents', then make our apologies."

"And what's my role in this, exactly? Unwitting audience for 'Teddy' to indulge his exhibitionist fetish?"

"Gosh, look at you, knowing long words like 'exhibitionist'. Haven't a clue why Hunter sent you along, to be frank."

"That makes two of us." That probably meant Hunter really did think there was some lesson for Callan to learn from this. He was damned if he knew what it was.

"Teddy probably thinks you're my bit of rough, actually - sorry about your no doubt resolutely heterosexual reputation." Meres' tone carried no hint of apology, but rather a touch of glee.

"I think my _reputation_ will do just fine. I'm not the one who just touched up a pretty boy in a dark corner of the Army and Navy Club in full view of the waiters."

Meres shrugged an elegant shrug. "Who cares about them?"

"And _that_, Toby, is why you're still playing second banana in this outfit." And no doubt had some very unsavoury rumours being spread about him even as they spoke.

Before Meres could formulate a response to _that_, Bunton returned, still a little flushed and somehow obviously debauched - though perhaps that was just Callan's jaundiced eye. Meres was all smiles that didn't reach his eyes, which instead promised some later vengeful and possibly dangerous teasing; but at least, Callan thought, he could now stand up with dignity.

Though he knew even as he shook Bunton's clammy hand that Meres had already had his unwitting revenge: the memory, the vivid imaginings in his mind's eye and phantom sensations of what had been happening right there under the table, would haunt him for months to come.


End file.
